


Routine

by Temerice



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kissing, M/M, So much kissing, this fic is a MESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10051436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temerice/pseuds/Temerice
Summary: “And who’s to say when a situation requires kissing?”-Sam and Rafe figure out some parts of their arrangement, in theory and in practice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the Fake Dating AU, happening sometime after [A Fierce Kiss, Possessive and Faithful](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/notcompletelyfake/works/9757463), but I suggest you read all the previous fics before getting into this one, otherwise it might be a little confusing.
> 
> English isn't my first language and this fic is completely unbeta'ed, so any and all mistakes are on me. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

i.

”So,” Sam says slowly.

“So,” Rafe replies. He knows that they’re both dancing around the issue, and he knows that Sam knows it, too. It’s not weird that they _practiced_ it the other night _(latched onto each other, holding on maybe too tight, lips and tongues and teeth)_ but it’s weird that they can’t even talk about it.

Sam clears his throat and stares at the floor before apparently getting a grip of himself and actually looking at Rafe. “How are we, uh, going to go on about this?”

“This?” It’s not like it’s not perfectly clear what Sam is talking about, but Rafe’s going to make him say it.

“Kissing. How are we going to go on about kissing?” Sam looks frustrated, and Rafe’s sure he’s aware of the game this is turning into, even if neither of them finds it funny in the slightest measure.

“I suppose… I suppose we kiss if the situation requires it.” Rafe makes sure to keep his voice business-like. After all, that’s what this is, isn’t it? Just business.

“And who’s to say when a situation requires kissing?”

“Well, you’re just going to have to figure that out yourself,” Rafe says impatiently. He’s not looking forward to figuring those moments out himself.

Sam lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Just don’t punch me when I do.”

Rafe finds himself smiling. “No promises.”

But there’s no bite in his voice, and Sam laughs again.

 

-

-

-

 

ii.

Tonight’s party is held in a gorgeous penthouse with the lights of Los Angeles twinkling below them. It’s actually the vernissage of a small photograph gallery, but that’s not important. People aren’t here to look at photos or enjoy champagne and canapés, they’re here to be seen, and so Rafe and by extension Sam have to be seen, too.

They’ve been holding hands the entire evening, making sure to glance at each other affectionately every once in a while, and at every glance there’s an unsaid _“you okay?”_ written in the corners of their eyes. It’s always answered with the smallest hint of a smile. Everything is okay for now, even if neither of them has actually acted on that agreement to kiss when the situation requires it. Then again, maybe it just hasn’t been required yet.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Rafe Adler,” says a voice that sounds like syrup; too rich and too sweet. Sam watches as Rafe’s frown folds into a pleasant smile in half a second before he turns around to greet a woman who’s good three inches taller than Sam in her black heels. Sam tries not to feel intimidated as her eyes sweep over him.

“Patricia,” Rafe says, the very picture of civilized confidence. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Same could be said about you,” she croons before turning her attention to Sam, “and your, ah, vis-à-vis who I have heard so much about.”

“All good, I hope,” Sam replies easily and untangles his fingers from Rafe’s to offer her his hand to shake. “Sam Drake.”

“Patricia Sutton,” she replies, and if she notices how sweaty Sam’s palm is from holding Rafe’s hand the entire evening, she doesn’t mention it.

“So,” Patricia starts, and Sam can just see the look that spells “I’m just here to see if the rumors are true and maybe fish for juicy details while I’m at it” in her eyes.

_Let’s give them something to gossip about, then._

“You two are certainly a match.” She sips from her glass of champagne. “Where did you meet?”

Rafe laughs. “Well, it’s a long story.”

“I should imagine so,” Patricia replies. “You don’t look like you’d, ah, run in the same crowd.”

Rafe’s smile doesn’t falter, but his fingers definitely tighten around Sam’s, who frankly wasn’t expecting the conversation to take this turn so soon either.

“Why don’t we tell the story then, darlin’?” Sam says, and he’s pissed off and tired and maybe a little brave from the champagne and he decides that this is a good moment, even if just to figuratively flip this woman off and maybe calm Rafe down a bit in the process, and he cranes his neck to press an affectionate kiss on Rafe’s cheek.

Too bad that Rafe just happens to turn his head at the same time, and Sam’s spur-of-the-moment kiss ends up right on his ear.

Rafe turns his head back to look at him, surprise momentarily colouring his face before he rearranges his smile. Sam grins sheepishly at him, hoping it looks at least remotely lovestruck, before turning his attention back to Patricia and assuming the stance of a storyteller, right hand still firmly in Rafe’s grasp.

“So, it was this small café in downtown L.A. called Avery’s…”

 

iii.

“What the hell was that?” Rafe hisses at Sam when it’s well past 10 pm and they’re standing on the edge of the rooftop terrace, Sam leaning on the railing. He’s itching for a cigarette.

“Shit, I don’t know.” Sam rubs his face with both of his hands and laughs helplessly into them when the hilarity of the situation finally reaches him. “I got your ear.”

“Yeah, you did.” Rafe exhales, shoulders rising and falling. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done about that now.”

“Are you quite sure? We could always, ah, make out scandalously right here to make up for it,” Sam says, mimicking Patricia’s upper class accent.

Rafe scoffs, clearly trying to hide his amusement. “Just try harder next time.”

Sam should know better than to read too much into that, but the underlying irritation from Patricia’s condescension certainly didn’t get wiped away by that sad excuse of a surprise kiss. He straightens his back and looks around; they’re alone in this corner of the terrace, but the occasional guests mingling on the other side are throwing curious looks their way. Sam even spots Patricia’s sandy hair and short crimson dress on the other end of the terrace, the light from the city down below catching in her ridiculously chunky diamond necklace.

“Is now okay?” Sam asks quietly, trying to appear casual.

Rafe’s smart; it doesn’t take him long to catch who Sam’s looking at, and it only takes a moment’s consideration before he says, “yes, I think now’s perfect.”

Sam allows himself a mischievous smile, partially because he knows everyone is watching but also to cover up the nervousness that might flicker across his face _(they practiced, for God’s sake)_ , and presses his palm against the small of Rafe’s back. Rafe looks up at him expectantly, lips parted like an invitation, and Sam tells himself _don’t think_ and _we practiced_.

“Don’t mess up my hair,” Rafe mutters, and Sam’s laughing when they kiss.

It’s nice, way nicer than Sam was expecting. Rafe’s mouth is warm and soft and he tastes of champagne, sweet and a little tangy. The nervousness melts away along with the pressure of being watched, and Sam’s hand creeps up to the back of Rafe’s neck to hold him close.

He might be imagining it, but he feels like the other guests have gone quiet, and suddenly Sam wants to give them a real reason to stare. He momentarily regrets not pressing Rafe against the railing _(then again, he_ is _more partial to desks, and the railing seems a tad risky),_ but he does let the kiss get a little sloppy towards the end, pressing on in all the interesting ways that elicit a low _mmph_ from Rafe.

Sam presses a quick kiss sweetly on the corner of his mouth to make up for that show when they finally pull apart, smugly noting that Rafe’s breathing has gotten ragged and conveniently ignoring that he’s a little out of breath himself.

“Practice makes perfect,” he murmurs in Rafe’s ear, hoping that it looks like he’s whispering sweet nonsense to his lover. Rafe, at least, has the good sense to smile slightly.

In the background the other guests slowly return to their previous volume of small talk.

 

iv.

“That went pretty well,” Sam says later in a taxi when it’s already past midnight.

“It did,” Rafe agrees. He’s feeling amiable for the moment, even if he’s sure it’ll have passed by the morning, replaced by the headache that’s sure to come sooner or later. What can he say; the champagne was really good and kept his hands steady.

They don’t talk for a while, and the silence is actually comfortable. Rafe finds himself thinking back on the kiss, and he has to admit that it was more than adequate.

Then again, maybe it was just a question of circumstances and giving the society something to talk about, but Sam really is something when he puts his heart into it.

Even if hearts aren’t in the play on this round.

Rafe glances at Sam, who keeps staring out of the window. The street lamps illuminate him every few seconds like a heartbeat.

 

-

-

-

 

v.

It gets easier, and Sam stops thinking that it’s nicer than he expected. Hell, he doesn’t know why he thought it wouldn’t be nice in the first place; he blames it on the nerves. Now he has no problem admitting that kissing Rafe is actually really nice, even though _nice_ starts to feel like a thoroughly inadequate word for it. It’s an interesting mix of satisfaction, smugness, sweetness and something that he’s almost afraid to call fondness.

He buys himself a new watch with the latest paycheck.

Rafe notices it when he comes over. He’s been doing that more often lately, and Sam can’t exactly figure out a reason for it, but he’s not complaining either.

“Huh,” Rafe says, eyes following the glint of the clock face on Sam’s wrist when he scratches his nose. That’s all he says, but the way his eyebrows lift just slightly tells Sam that he approves.

“Want a drink?” Sam asks as Rafe slumps down on his old brown leather sofa with a soft _oomph_. It’s half past nine in the evening, so Sam figures it’s a safe bet to assume Rafe’s here for leisure instead of business. He’s halfway to the fridge even before Rafe even opens his mouth.

“You know me so well.”

Rafe accepts the beer bottle Sam hands him, eyeing lazily the movie Sam put on half an hour ago. Sam takes the opportunity to move a pile of books nonchalantly off the wooden trunk that serves as coffee table before Rafe has the chance to put his bottle on them. Sam has no problem keeping books on every surface in his apartment, he just doesn’t own a single coaster, and Rafe seems to be in the mood to not care about anything in particular.

Rafe glances pointedly at the two already overflowing bookshelves that flank the TV when Sam ends up putting the books on the floor next to the sofa. Sam decides not to say anything.

He sits down on the sofa, ending up a hint closer to Rafe than he intended, and barely catches himself before he actually drapes his arm over the back of the sofa and Rafe’s shoulders.

It’s a detail he’s clung to for the past weeks when they’ve attended parties and other happenings together; if they sit down together, Sam makes sure to extend his arm over the back rests of their seats, letting Rafe lean into him. It’s something he picked up from the way Nathan is with Elena, and by now he’s gotten so used to the gesture that it threatens to come out naturally in a situation in which it’s not required. Yes. That’s what it is. _Routine_.

He’s not sure what he thinks about “just one night” turning into a routine.

Sam shifts, and their knees bump. Rafe doesn’t seem to notice or at least pay any attention to the touch, but Sam is suddenly very aware of how close they’re sitting to each other.

 _You’re over-analyzing_ , he tells himself.

 _It’s just business,_ he tells himself.

 _It’s routine that’s making you feel like kissing him right now_ , he tells himself.

Sam drains half of his bottle in one swig and hopes Rafe doesn’t notice.

 

-

-

-

 

vi.

Sam passes Rafe a glass of white wine and Rafe kisses him for it, sweet and soft and quick. Sam looks pleasantly surprised; he’s usually the one to take initiative, but then again it does fit his reputation as a bit of a scoundrel to steal kisses when it’s not fully appropriate. Personally Rafe thinks that this amount of public displays of affection is unnecessary and a bit improper, but anything to keep his parents off his back. Shocking the upper class is just a bonus, but a nice one at that.

“Oh, to be young and in love again,” coos the little old lady Rafe’s been talking with for almost ten minutes now. They’re at the engagement party of the Montgomerys’ second eldest daughter, and the woman is her aunt… or mother-in-law, Rafe can’t remember and honestly doesn’t care. She dabs the corners of her eyes with a folded napkin, more for the sake of the gesture and less for actual tears. “Enjoy it while it lasts, dears.”

Rafe is on the verge of getting riled up when he realizes that the woman simply means youth, not love, and it takes him a second to calm himself. Sam’s good-natured “That’s the plan, ma’am” helps, and Rafe can’t help but feel grateful as Sam takes over the conversation with an easy smile.

“For a second there I thought – “ Rafe starts when the woman is escorted away by the young bride-to-be, beaming at them as she goes.

“I know,” Sam says before Rafe can finish, and his hand is rubbing lazy circles against Rafe’s back. “But maybe not everyone is out to get us.”

“You give these people too much credit.” Rafe’s been on the receiving end of too many sly remarks about their relationship, and he can only imagine the amount of comments Sam has been needled with. He can hardly be blamed for being prone to snapping at this point.

Sam shrugs, apparently unwilling to start discussing the matter any further, but there is a hint of a devilish grin in the corner of his mouth when he says, “Still want to make out?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Rafe replies as he tugs Sam down to his level.

There’s always a few more people to scandalize.

 

vii.

There’s a knock on Sam’s hotel room door, and by know he recognizes Rafe’s style of knocking: two sharp, fast knocks followed by a silence that’s begging for a third, final knock.

“Coming,” Sam calls, hastily pulling a shirt over his head. They agreed to meet in Sam’s room five minutes after arriving at the hotel, but if that’s five minutes, Sam’s going to eat his tuxedo.

He’s still pulling the shirt over his torso with one hand when he opens the door and reveals Rafe, who blinks in surprise.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t know you weren’t dressed,” Rafe says as a way of greeting him, and Sam knows him well enough by now to understand that it’s an apology, too, in its own way.

“It’s fine,” Sam says, letting Rafe walk into his room. He gets five steps in and looks like he’s going to sit on Sam’s bed, but then decides otherwise and is left standing in the small space between the bed and the wall.

“Make yourself at home,” Sam suggests dryly, and Rafe scoffs.

“We should debrief,” he says curtly.

“Fine,” Sam says, plopping down rather unceremoniously on the small sofa crammed in the corner of the room. He’s glad he got the chance to change into a T-shirt and sweatpants, but Rafe is still wearing his slacks and white dress shirt, even though he’s allowed himself the freedom of rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and popping a few buttons.

“How do you think it went?” Rafe begins with their standard question, something to ease them into this inevitably weird discussion about their façade.

“I think it went pretty well,” Sam replies like he always does.

Rafe stays quiet for a few moments, which in itself is unusual, but he’s crossed his arms, fingers drumming against biceps, and Sam could swear Rafe Adler is actually _fidgeting_.

“You don’t think it went well,” Sam says, and the disappointment that swells inside of him is bigger than he expected.

“No, no, I think – “ Rafe pauses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I think it went well.”

Sam blinks, confused. “What’s the problem, then?”

Rafe looks frustrated, like Sam’s failing to understand something crucial that should be so obvious that it doesn’t even require an explanation. “Don’t you think it’s going a little too well?”

Well, that certainly did nothing to clear things up. “What do you mean, ‘too well’?”

“I mean that we should tone it down a bit,” Rafe says, and Sam’s mood plummets even further. “We’ve been at this for almost a month now, not to mention that I initially told my parents that we’d been dating for months prior this. By all means, we should’ve gotten over the sugary phase of this… thing by now.”

“Wait, that’s what this is about?” Sam leans forward on his seat, staring at Rafe. “You’re worried we appear _too_ in love?”

Rafe sneers and looks away. “If that’s how you want to put it, yes.”

“Rafe,” Sam says, and an incredulous bark of a laugh escapes him alongside the word before he can stop it, “everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure,” Rafe says slowly in that tone of voice that suggests he doesn’t believe Sam in the slightest.

“Positive.” Sam briefly considers getting up and walking up to Rafe, but then decides against it. “I was talking to someone when you went to the bathroom earlier, and he remarked how ‘absolutely delightful’ it is that romance isn’t dead and that we’re still ‘such lovebirds’ after so many months. Don’t ask me how he knew about the time frame, I have no idea,” Sam adds when Rafe lifts an eyebrow. “What I mean is that we’re good.”

Rafe is silent for a moment. “You may have a point.”

“So you’re not breaking up with me?” Sam says, trying for levity, and to his credit the corners of Rafe’s mouth quirk upwards.

“No, you’re not getting out of this that easily,” Rafe replies, “but we might need to stop full-on making out in every party we attend to.”

“What, you don’t like it?” Sam’s only half-joking.

“No, that’s not the case,” Rafe says just a tad too quickly, even if his tone is still carefully dismissive. “You’re forgetting that I do actually have a reputation to uphold, as much as I like tearing it down by being seen with you.”

“Aw, I care about you, too, Rafe.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

But Rafe’s smiling as he says it.

 

-

-

-

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see more of my stuff, I have [a writing blog](http://iwillplaythefool.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr where I post stuff that's not long enough to be uploaded on ao3.


End file.
